Post Script
by alltimelowlover
Summary: Literati. He’s imagined a million different scenarios. Thousands upon thousands of ways they would meet again. What he would say, what she would do, but somehow he had never quite imagined this one.
1. I wish it didn't hurt, hurt like this

Title: Post Script (Chapter Titles from the song "Post Script" by Finch)

Disclaimer: I own zip zero nadda

Summary: Literati. She's forgotten everything; he's the only one who can make her remember.

_I wish it didn't hurt, hurt like this_

His job is careful and concise. Who would have thought stacking books onto shelves, was such a thoughtful job? First they must be stacked in accordance to genre. Then of course there is author, and then title, to consider, alphabetically. He reaches down into the cardboard box once again to find another book to stack and finds a Hemingway. He grins at it, first because he's read it and wants to shout "Read this! Read this!" but knows that the older lady next to him might keel over from shock. Then he stacks it quietly next to the other untouched copies. The lady looks at him quickly, trying to make it look like she's not. He knows better. He walks up to her, boldly of course, because with any woman over 40, he's learned, you have to be careful.

"Anything I can help you with ma'am?" he asks. He has a goofy grin on his face and anyone who knows him well enough would want to smack him silly after seeing it. He says it like he actually cares, but he doesn't because the truth of the matter is that he knows he's being watched, closely and rather seductively by his boss. Margaret is a 48 year old overweight, wannabe political satire writer, husbandless and kid less to a fault. He usually notices her watching him, sometimes though her eyes seem to travel a little lower than he'd like. Today however her eyes are forcefully glued to him. He came in late today, overslept and all that, but had made terrible excuses, to the fact that he got the "Hey honey, do I look like I was _born_ yesterday?" speech.

The lady takes a strong look at him, now that she's actually allowed to look at him, and concentrates in on him.

"Well," she says, quite seductively. "I need a book."

It takes every bone in his body not to start laughing his ass off right there in front of her, but he only bites his bottom lip to hold it back. _Obviously_ he thinks to himself, while she starts giving him suggestive glances.

"Well ma'am…"

"- Natasha Livingston," she interjects quickly.

At this point he wants to say _I really don't give a damn who you are, and no, I'm not sleeping with you tonight. The only reason I'm actually pulling these words out of my ass is so that when I wake up tomorrow I have a job to go to_. But he doesn't of course because if he actually speaks these words they will be to the contrary.

"Right, well Mrs. Livingston –"

She stops him again, this time with her hand against his chest.

"Please," she whispers gently. "Call me - _Natasha_."

At this he looks up to see if Margaret is anywhere near them, and he finds that she isn't. He cusses violently under his breath, so much that she nearly pulls away from him, he wishes she would. He takes her hand and removes it from his chest.

"Right, so ma'am I would suggest a Hemingway, if you're really interested. O what's that?" he asks putting his hand to his ear trying to hear an imaginary voice. "If you'll excuse me I believe I have another customer."

'Sick bitch,' he thinks to himself. He walks away, leaving the fragile woman, rather in awe of him, while slightly hurt. His feet bring him back to the front of the bookshop. It's a quaint store. Nothing too fancy, entirely. But it works well for him because he doesn't like commotion and he hates when people stray too long. He likes working where no one can see him and no one can talk to him. He wishes there were more of that around here.

The clanking of the bell overhead catches his attention, signaling the arrival of a new customer or asshole, whichever way you look at it. The woman is slim, almost lanky, tall with an authoritative walk. Her clothing, immediately grabs his attention, not particularly because he finds it appealing, but that it's out of place. She wears a black blazer and dress pants, nothing that fits in around these parts, and she has a cell phone, pager, ipod and pda. Her gaze filters around the room, taking in every part of the store. Her eyes come into contact with his and suddenly he looks away, because really that's what he's always done. She takes two steps over to face him, standing tall, while he hunches over the counter, waiting for her to speak.

"Hello. I'm looking for a Mr. Jess Mariano."

He tries not to draw suspicion to himself and tries to think of anything illegal he's done in the past month, but can't quite draw an appropriate act of vandalism to mind.

"He's not here," he tells her.

Her suave smirk turns into a faulty smile and all at once he becomes extremely suspicious.

"Hello Jess, I'm agent Kristin West from the West Private Investigators. I was hoping I could ask you a couple of question."

"About what?"

"I, uh, think we need to speak in private," she tells him quietly.

"Look lady this is a bookstore, there is no private. So I suggest you just tell me what it is right now or leave."

Her smile doesn't change for one minute as she pulls out a folder from her briefcase.

"He told me you were quite a firecracker, I thought he was exaggerating. Obviously not. Here's a folder, why don't you take a look at it. When you're ready, my number is in there."

She leaves the folder on the counter, and walks off. He watches her leave and hears the bell on the door signal her departure. At first he just looks at the manila folder and lets it lie there. Curiosity never did anyone any good he reminds himself. But he lets it sit there, and at first he fights with himself, thinking it's something from his past and he knows that if it is from his past nothing good can come from it.

Finally Margaret comes into view. She walks up to him carefully and eyes him again. This time directly in the eye and he knows, full on, that he's in trouble.

"Jesus Christ Mariano, didn't your mother ever teach you any manners?" she asks him.

He wonders whether or not she's joking but he sees no sparkle in her eye and resumes his seriousness.

"No," he answers, quite honestly.

"You scared the shit out of that Livingston woman. She complained so damn much about it, told me she was going to have her husband buy me out and burn down this damn bookstore. Do you want a roof over your head?"

"Yes," he answers honestly again.

"Don't get smart. It doesn't suit you. Don't act up again, or I will fire you, with no regrets, at all."

She looks down on the counter and sees the folder.

"What the hell is this?"

He just shrugs. "Some lady came in and gave it to me."

"Well get it off here, and while you're at it, get yourself out of here, I'm sick of seeing you today. Come by and open tomorrow."

He doesn't say anything, not wanting to disrupt her thoughts of hate for him. He merely jumps at the opportunity to leave, grabbing only his jacket and at the last minute – the folder.

There's nothing good on TV, nothing other than the news. But a person shooting others has never really been on the top of his must-see list. He sinks into his, already sunken, sofa and sits, beer in hand. On his crummy kitchen table lays the folder. He swigs back some of his drink and finally walks over to the table. He seats himself in front of it and sits there, placing his beer down next to him. Temptation seeps into his skin and his mind wanders for a few moments at what it could possibly be about. Finally his conscience gets the worst of him and he opens the folder. The first thing he sees is a picture. It's gorier than he expected. He leans into it closely to examine it. The picture looks like it came right out of the Shining itself. A huge gash into the skull of someone. He leafs through the various other documents. But he stops as his eyes hit one line of text and suddenly his whole body goes numb.

_Accident/Victim/Patient Name: Lorelai Leigh Gilmore_

_Diagnosis: Amnesia_

He finds it suddenly very hard to swallow. The pit of his stomach has found its way quickly into his chest. He leans back in his chair, for a moment. Memories wash over him, at first subtle subtitles in his life. He remembers watching her from afar with Dean. Then the night she had called him "Dodger". The car crash. The kiss at the wedding. Him leaving her, unknowingly on the bus. Him asking her to come away with him. And finally her saying no. The last one catches up with him quickly. So many times he's tried to forget. Hell, he's wanted to try to forget about her for as long as he could remember, but he's never quite been able to do it. Finally he snaps out of his haze and returns to the folder. He leafs through the various documents. _Serious fracture to the skull…Car crash…No injuries sustained to driver…Amnesia…_ Somewhere in the middle of these he forgets to breath. He finally sustains normal breathing patterns and flips to the last page. Attached to the doctor's form is a picture. She looks up at him with angelic eyes (oh god, does he ever remember those eyes!). Her hair is slightly longer than he remembers it being. She's not smiling; it's more of a smirk. As if she knows something you don't. He smiles at this, because that's how he's always remembered her. She always knew something he didn't. Always.

He finds within the package a note from the agent.

_Interested in helping? Call 555-9876_

_Kristin West_

At first he wants to throw the whole folder out and forget everything about it and her. But he thinks that deep down, he wants to know. God damn it, he is interested. He wants to know what the hell it has to do with him. He picks up his telephone and dials her number, but on instinct slams the phone back down. Finally he takes the phone in his hand and dials the number again, but it takes all his strength not to slam it right down.

"West Private Investigators. How may I direct your call?"

"Kristin West."

"Right away, Sir"

The line clicks over and he suddenly feels the intense urge to hang up –

"Hello."

Too late.

"Kristin?"

"Yes?"

"This is Jess Mariano."

The voice on the other line does a 180 degree turn and immediately perks up.

"Oh good. I'm glad you called. Did you read through the folder?"

"Yea," he says.

"What did you think?" she asks him.

"I want to know what the hell it has to do with me," he says getting impatient with her and already regretting his decision to call. But he can almost hear her still smiling on the other end of the phone.

"Jess I'm going to have to ask you a couple of questions. You once knew Ms. Gilmore? Correct?"

His shoulders start to sag and suddenly he feels like a little boy.

"What is this about?" he asks regaining his confidence.

She sighs loudly into the phone and answers him. "I thought it all was explained to you in the folder. I'm going to have to have you come down to the hospital, tomorrow morning, to answer a few questions."

"I have to work tomorrow morning," he tells her quite gruffly.

"What time do you get off?" she asks him, trying again.

He thinks for a moment, unsure of his exact hours, considering that Margaret never told him exactly. But she interrupts his thoughts.

"Tomorrow night at 6. The directions to the hospital are inside the folder. Good bye Mr. Mariano."

She hangs up on him leaving him_ quite _stunned.


	2. To say these things to you

_To say these things to you_

The bad boy part of him desperately wants to tell her to piss off and not even show up. But the inner angel in him (if there even is one) wants to stay around and see. He's searched the folder, read every word, seen every picture, and still has no clue what it has to do with him. She's obviously been in some kind of car crash and has been diagnosed with amnesia, but he is puzzled to the fact of how that has anything to do with him. When he wakes up that morning to open shop, he finds his answering machine is blinking. He listens to the message, as he fixes his own cup of coffee.

"Hi – Jess. Uh, this is Luke. I – Well I think you've heard about Rory. That detective lady came here and asked for your name and address. So I gave it to them. I know this is kinda – ya know – hard for you. But we all – the whole town – would really appreciate it if you would help out. Uh – I know that doesn't mean a lot to you now, but this is really important to not only me but ya know – Lorelai too. Anyway maybe you could give me a call back – sometime. Ok, by the way this is Luke. Ok, well, bye." Click.

It stops and he sits there in stunned silence, finally feeling the full effects of his future decisions. He's never been one to be counted on, almost everyone who's met him can account for that, but something inside of him wants to be dependable. He could be dependable, he thinks, if he tried.

He hates riding buses, but finds that there is no other way to get to the hospital. He finds a seat next to a battered old lady, who wants nothing to do with him. And frankly he is relieved because he can't stand talking to anyone right now. When they arrive he sulks off the bus. The hospital is towering compared to him and he once again feels extremely small. When he walks in there a few dozen kids in wheelchairs doing wheelies and a few extremely ignorant adults talking amongst themselves. He reaches the reception desk and thinks to himself, that he can just walk away now and save a lifetime of torment and pain. He doesn't need any more on his plate than he already has.

"Honey, can I help ya?" the receptionist asks him.

He turns to stare at her, and is about to say no, when someone comes up out of the corner of his eye.

"Aha, Mr. Mariano. Didn't think you would show up. I had security guards already headed over to your apartment to escort you here. Thank goodness they didn't have to take their guns with them," she tells him smiling.

He thinks she's just joking. Somehow her smiles have turned into something rather wicked to him.

"Right, so. If you'll just follow me."

She leads the way through the halls of sick patients and finally after two left turns he finds himself in an emptied out hospital bedroom. There are two chairs placed against the far wall and a desk placed in between them.

"Have a seat," she says to him, motioning to the farthest chair. He does as he's told, and takes a seat. He hates hospitals, more than any other place in the world, he despises them.

"So I bet you're wondering why you're here?" she asks him, once again smiling.

He doesn't think this is the least bit funny.

"Well," she she says as she pulls out a sheet of paper from her briefcase and reads, "Ms. Lorelai Leigh Gilmore was driving in a black Mercedes-Benz with a Mr. Clark Ranaldo Harvey, on July 21st 2005. At approximately 10:00 PM on the cross streets of Ashford and Lumington, in New Haven, Connecticut, a Mr. Lyle Lucas Covington driving in a red Volvo, made contact with the Mercedes. The only injury sustained was a severe concussion from Ms. Gilmore. She woke up four days later and was diagnosed by Dr. Markus Ramsey to have a mild case of amnesia."

He looks at her, but he doesn't really hear her. He can almost see it happening. It doesn't bother him at first, seeing her in his dreams. But he imagines her lying there, bleeding and suddenly his fists start to clench and an amazing feeling of worrying comes over him, for the first in time in practically years.

"Mr. Mariano, Ms Gilmore's memory is very thin. The only things she remembers are her name and where she lives. She barely even knows who her mother is. You've been called in here, because we need help piecing her life together."

He sits there stunned for a moment. Because he wonders really how they could possibly imagine bringing him in there. The only thing he caused in her life was pain.

"Look I don't really think you understand," he tells her. "I don't know a lot about her, I mean even ask her mom."

She clasps her hands together before continuing on.

"Well, Ms. Lorelia Victoria Gilmore was actually the one who suggested you," she tells him.

He leans back in his chair, adapting to the situation. He can't formulate words at this point and doesn't even want to.

"Look everything I know about her, everyone else knows," he complains.

She leans closer in to him, not exactly believing him.

"Mr. Mariano, I don't know how hard this is for you, but there are certain things in that period of time you were friends that I'm sure only you two knew."

He just shakes his head, wanting her to believe that he knows nothing. Wanting right now to be in his apartment with a beer and some unknown girl lying in his bed, anything at all, but this. He's sick of it, at this point, not wanting to bring her into his life again. He stands up to leave but she eyes him closely.

"If you leave you'll be walking out on her. You could be the key to her remembering. Listen, Mr. Mariano, her memory fades in and out at times. Sometimes she remembers people other times they're total strangers. One face might be all it takes to restore her memory. You could be that face."

He drops back down into the seat, his conscience is cursing at him right now, for even standing up, and his bad part is cussing at him for not walking out right then and there.

"What do I have to do?" he asks her quietly, feeling defeated.

She smiles at him and it takes every part of his body not to rip that stupid smirk right off her face.

"Well first there are a few questions I'm going to ask you about your memories of her."

He just nods his head at her.

"Ok, are there any certain memories you have of her?"

"No," he tells her, lying of course.

She scribbles something onto her notepad.

"Right, are there any nicknames you called each other?"

"No," he tells her again, lying once again.

She scribbles something else onto her notepad and this time he can read the word_, difficult_.

"Are you going to answer any of these questions truthfully?"

He almost lets a 'no' slip out, but catches himself just in time.

"I'm answering your questions."

She eyes him carefully, no longer a smile present on her face. Her notebook slams shut with the power of her hand and she stares at him long and hard.

"Did you love her?" she asks.

The bluntness of her question catches him off guard. He doesn't know whether or not to answer it, so he decides to let it sit in the air.

"Well from the consultation I had with her mother, you dated her daughter and left her broken-hearted, but she did tell me you loved her immensely. Or at least she thought you did. And from what Mr. Luke Danes has told me, I believe it too. So if the answer to my question is yes, I think you need to cut the smart-ass act, because Rory is depending on you, whether or not you realize it."

He feels belittled, but he knows it's for good reason. He knows he's being difficult and naïve and stupid, among other things. But doesn't she realize this is who he is, who he was and who he'll always be. He decides now is the day to grow up, be the better person. After all this is for her, everything else already has been…

She takes her notebook and flips it back open, putting on that smile he hates once again.

"Right so where were we?" she chirps at him.


	3. I'll sacrifice one moment for one truth

A/N: Thanks for the reviews. It's been a little while since I've updated and that has been due to the following: basketball practices (I am right now extremely sore), the sun (it's so pretty and shiny and it burns you. I'm sitting here with a huge sunburn) and my boyfriend (boy are they time consuming, especially during the summer ;) ) And so I guess…on with the story…by the way if at all possible i need a beta?

_I'll sacrifice one moment for one truth_

His head is numb and he thinks it has something to do with the questioning. Fortunately for him, nothing coveted has been revealed and above all, he can leave the room with his reputation, ego and even his heart, in tact. The smile on the investigators face has now turned into a mocking grin, something which Jess finds thoroughly bemusing. He wants to rip the stupid smirk off her face, but thinks better of it.

"Right, now that wasn't so hard was it?" she asks him.

He mutters under his breath slightly and she's beginning to realize this is the type of response to expect.

"Am I done?" he asks, trying to be polite and hide is sarcasm.

"Yes," she says to him, and he gets up from his chair ready to go into a mad dash home, once he leaves the room, but then she stops him – again.

"Right after you meet Ms. Gilmore."

He turns toward her, his mouth curved down. He tucks his hands into his leather jacket and gives her a slightly pissed off look.

"Excuse me?" he asks her.

She gathers her notes and shoves them into her suitcase, pausing before answering him.

"You need to meet Ms. Gilmore, Mr. Mariano, I told you, one face could make all the difference."

He shakes his head.

"I'm not going to see her," he tells her confidently and supremely. "I answered your stupid questions, honestly too. I could have lied but I didn't so I'm not going in there to see her."

He moves towards the door but she grabs the sleeve of his jacket and in turn he flings back slightly.

"Look here, Mr. Mariano. I don't think you're hearing me correctly. You _are_ going to see Ms. Gilmore and you _are_ going to talk to her. I don't care if I have to carry you myself into that room. You _will_ see her."

He finds himself slightly scared of her again. Jess Mariano isn't supposed to be scared. But he is, oh my, is he ever.

She takes her briefcase and carries it confidently over to the door, where she opens the door and turns to leave.

"Mr. Mariano, she's next door when you're ready. Oh and by the way, don't even try to run; I will be watching this door like a hawk."

Then she does something surprising, she places a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. Then turns on her heel and slams the door. He cusses under his breath at her, but what's the use, if she can't hear it. To him the worst part is that the only thing he hates more than confrontation is pity.

>

It takes every piece of self restraint in his body not to walk right out of the room and leave completely. He reminds himself that he is bigger, stronger and most likely faster than her, but he knows deep down what's the right thing to do. He finally decides it's better sooner than later, and before he knows it, he finds his feet have carried him all the way to the hallway. He finds himself standing face to face with a little boy. He can't be more than five years old. He lies in a bed, with an IV stuck in his fragile hand. Jess watches the little boy and finally he realizes, with contempt that the little boy is staring at him. He looks away quickly, bewildered.

"Excuse me, Mister?" he hears the boy utter.

His first instinct is to pretend not to have heard him, but really, he's not trying to be the Grinch. So he does turn towards the little boy.

"Mister, can you hand me that book," he asks as he points towards a book underneath the bed. Jess bends down, collects the book and places it on the boy's bed.

"Thank you, sir."

The 'sir' part startles him, but he finds solitude standing there. The boy makes him feel unnerved.

"So what's wrong with you?" the boy asks him.

Jess looks at him and wonders whether to be grateful or offended.

"I'm not sick. I'm here to see someone," he answers.

"Who?" the kid asks.

Jess figures he really doesn't have time for this, especially because he despises kids, but then he realizes what the alternative is, so he sticks next to the boy.

"A friend."

The little boy nods his head slowly and picks up the book.

"So, uh, what are you reading?" Jess finally asks.

The little boy coughs for a moment then answers, "Jane Eyre."

Jess cringes.

"It's a waste of paper," he replies.

The boy doesn't say anything and Jess wonders whether or not he's hurt his feelings.

"Here," he says pulling a book out of his back pocket.

"What is it?" the boy asks wide-eyed.

"Hemingway," Jess answers, handing the book to him, and placing the other book in his back pocket.

"Thank you…" he says.

"Jess," he finishes.

"I'm Danny," the boy says, thoroughly loving Jess' company.

A soft silence draws over them.

"So what's wrong with you?" Jess finally asks, looking for anything to distract him from what he's really thinking about.

"My heart doesn't work right," the boy replies softly, starting to warm up to Jess even more.

"Oh, does it hurt?"

The boy laughs a little and then so does Jess.

"Not now, but sometimes it does."

They both sit there for what feels like hours, but mere minutes pass by and suddenly their silent solitude is broken.

A nurse, with a horrible high-pitched voice, comes up from behind.

"Danny? We're going down to get some x-rays now!"

The boy nods, obviously used to this sort of thing and waves.

"Bye Jess."

And as the nurse wheels the boy past him, Jess merely smiles at him. Once the boy is out of sight, he turns to leave, but he hears a chirp.

"Mr. Mariano?"

Damn, he was so close.

"You're heading the wrong direction. Ms. Gilmore' room is the way," she says pointing towards the door.

"Silly me," he says grumbling and thus turning around.

>

She opens the door for him, indicating that he should be the first one to enter, so he does. He enters a room much like the one, he had been in before, except this one is furnished. There are piles and piles of gift baskets, flowers, teddy bears and what looked like already open chocolate containers, spread throughout the room. A few banners hang on the wall, _Get Well Soon_ and _We Love You. _And then he sees her. She's up moving around; obviously she didn't sustain any other serious bodily harm. His heart suddenly starts to beat faster and something seems to rise in his throat, to the point that he can't talk. Her figure is turned, her back towards him. Her brown hair is cut short, which gives her a more mature appearance. She hears the door open and turns towards them smiling.

He's imagined a million different scenarios. Thousands upon thousands of way they would meet again, what he would say, what she would do, but somehow he had never quite guessed this one.

"Rory, this is Jess," Kristin says, introducing them.

The brunette steps closer to Jess, so close he can smell the usual scent of her slight perfume. Her clothing is subdued. Her cashmere turtleneck and denim miniskirt are off played by the bruise on her forehead. Her blue eyes smile genuinely at him, something he never thought would happen again unless he got down and begged for forgiveness and even then he was still unsure. She sticks her hand out for him to shake and it startles him. But then he realizes that's what you do to _strangers._

"Hello, Jess," she says. "It's nice to meet you."

He reaches out to shake her hand, and as he does he just nods at her. The genuine sparkle in her eyes is still there and he realizes that she remembers nothing about him – nothing at all.

Kristin lingers in the background for a moment and then takes a step forward.

"How are you feeling Rory?" she asks lightly.

Rory turns towards Kristin, giving her another heartfelt smile and says graciously, "Oh goodness, I feel much better thank you."

She turns her attention back to Jess, who is being his usual self, standing there, being moody and doing nothing, but then again she doesn't know this.

"Do you remember Jess?" Kristin asks.

Rory's eyes scan his body. They start at the top of his head, the unruly disarray of dark hair. She works her way down through his face, only stopping for a moment as his eyes. Her eyes travel down to his leather jacket, to his sagging jeans and finally to his scuffed shoes. He feels extremely naked at this point and turns away shyly.

"No, I'm sorry, have we met before?" she asks him smiling like she would at the mailman, or at a little boy she had just met.

"You and Jess were friends," Kristin explains. At this Jess sends her an extremely pissed off look, but she doesn't seem to notice.

Rory considers the words thoughtfully, scanning him again, trying to see something, but doesn't.

"I'm sorry," she tells him regretfully. "I don't remember you."

He's about to tell her he has to leave, and get the hell out of this place, but the door opening stops him.

"Rory, baby!" He hears a voice shout.

Jess turns around to see a tall, well built, blonde haired man standing in the doorway, his arms outstretched, a huge smile on his (fake and bake) tanned face.

He embraces her in a monstrous hug, consuming her entire body. When he pulls away he sees Jess and instinctively wraps his arm around her waist.

"Clark, this is….Jess. Jess this is Clark," she introduces.

"Her fiancée," he says finishing her sentence, sticking out his hand for Jess to shake. And he does.

"Nice to meet you," Jess says, in a voice that sounds particularly to the contrary. "Well I'd better go I have to work tomorrow."

He turns to leave, and as he does, the book in his back pocket falls out onto the floor. Rory watches this and reaches out to pick it up.

"Jane Eyre?" she asks eyeing the former book of the little boy.

Jess nods.

"Have you ever read it?" he asks.

"No," she answers, handing him the book, as he shoves it back into his pocket, "but I think someone once told me it was a waste of paper."

He doesn't blink; he doesn't even flinch at this.

"Here," he says pulling it back out and handing it to her. "Find out for yourself."

She looks at him, wide-eyed at the prospect of a new book.

"Thank you Jess," she says.

"No problem," he tells her as he leaves through the doorway, with her staring at him, in silent, sparkling wonderment.

a/n: Just a little something for you right now. I'll be gone for a while the next chapter probably will not be up until next week (fingers crossed). Feedback appreciated :) LacY


	4. If we get thru tomorow then we'l be fine

A/N: The italics are flashbacks. Just to let you know.

_If we get through tomorrow then we'll be fine_

He merely roams the streets for a while. Aimlessly searching for something to do. It's late, and he knows that it's quite dangerous to be out. The streetlights are on, and they cast an eerie glow over him.

He doesn't bother taking the bus back, the walk soothes him, as he finds he rather fancies it compared to his cramped up apartment. Her face remains in his head. The glow of her eyes, the touch of her hand against his. The look of contempt of Clark. He laughs despite himself, remembering how Clark had become increasingly jealous and pulled her tighter. As if he somehow posed a threat. The loneliness in her eyes stands in front of him, the genuine smiles. He shivers at it, remembering the last time that had happened. Who knew he could even remember things that far back?

He reaches his apartment with ease. Finding no comfort in the fact that he's home. Once inside, he falls onto his old couch, but he's hours from sleep and he knows it. He hates her, all of the sudden. He hates that she can do this to him, by simply shaking his hand. He's tried to forget her, he's had at least 10 different girls and it had worked, for a while at least. Until now, in which he falls asleep with her smile and touch dancing slowly in his head.

Days later he finds that he can forget about 'the visit' as he refers to it, to himself. He doesn't think about it nearly as much as the previous days, and once again finds solitude in his work. Maragret, he notices, has become increasingly futile in her attempts to flirt with him. Her monologues which are accompanied, despite his glowering stares, with rampant and suggestive glances, usually fill him with a slight pleasure, knowing he has things to do and can not be bothered with his previous occasions.

He stands, packing more books, into the shelves, something that has become increasingly difficult, as the result of the lack of people actually buying books. When actual pushing doesn't work, he finds himself flinging his body at the rows of books, hoping (and praying) that they'll fit in. He does this once or twice through the course of the day, but only once does he turn around to see if anyone is watching him. And only once, does he wish he hadn't.

He almost dies at the sight of her, more like the shock and embarrassment, but he still has an aching feeling in his stomach. She stands in front of him, her mouth turned up into a genuine smile, obviously from watching his display of stupidity. He feels his cheeks burn slightly and reaches up to rake a hand through his hair, a sure sign of embarrassment. Her hair is as it was when he first saw her, her skirt hits right above the knee and her shirt is a subdued blue, which he notices despite himself, compliments her eyes quite nicely.

"Hello," she says, holding back her laughter.

He doesn't know whether to grin, smile or just walk away. So he just stands there, nods at her (his own form of 'hello') and awaits her next move.

"I came to give this back to you," she says, handing a book to him. "I was right; it was a total waste of paper."

He nods at her, lost for words and takes the book from her hands. She begins to realize he hasn't said anything since she's arrived and begins to become worried.

"Are you alright?" she asks him with genuine concern.

He nods again, and realizes himself he hasn't said a word to her.

"I'm fine," he tells her.

"Right, well I also came here to give you this," she says, pulling another book out of her purse.

He takes it from her and reads the title.

"Pride and Prejudice?" he asks incredulous.

She merely smiles at him.

"Give it a chance."

He's about to tell her, there's no way in hell, but stops himself.

"Ok," he says. She smiles at him, and he begins regretting altogether ever seeing her again. He realizes, with hope that their conversation is drawing to a close, but she stops his thought.

"Jess?" she asks.

He almost jumps at the sound of his own name.

"Would you like to grab something to eat with me?"

The look on her face, is enough to make him want to reach out and touch her. She looks so alone, as if she's asking him to come sleep next to her tonight. And for the first time he really sympathizes with her. He realizes she has no idea, no clue at all, what's happening. She has no idea who he is, and even the bad boy in him finds it hard not to pity her.

"Yea," he tells her, "it's my lunch break anyway."

* * *

He finds even though she may have lost her memory. Her cravings for coffee have not subsided, neither has her large appetite, if anything it's increased. He finds her thoroughly amusing and sometimes he finds it hard to believe he's actually talking to her.

"Do you always carry around books with you, like that?" she asks pointing to his back pocket.

He shrugs slightly and answers, "It's a habit."

She merely chuckles at him, thinking it's rather cute and continues on enjoying her meal. After a moment she pauses, seriousness in her tonality.

"Jess, before, when I knew you, were we friends?" she asks quickly.

He can tell that she's most definitely embarrassed. Her cheeks have turned a rosy hue, and her eyes can't seem to meet his.

"Yea, we were friends," he tells her, forcing the words out of his mouth, but finding it extremely hard to admit it.

"Were we - close?" she asks him.

His eyes glance at her slowly, she's staring at him, as if her confidence is slowly gaining but he finds it aching at his insides.

"No," he says flatly, lying straight to her face. Lying has become a habit to him.

The answer doesn't quite shake her, actually he sees her relax, as if the thousand pound weight has been lifted from her shoulders. She resumes eating, but pauses for a moment, staring at him intently.

"I'm sorry," she tells him. He chokes on his burger, startled at the revelation before him.

"I don't remember you, but I guess, I really wish I did. It's better then, that we weren't close," she tells him. He knows she's near tears. Tiny droplets of water have formed at the crease of her eye and it takes every amount of self control he has not to reach out and brush them away. She takes her napkin and gently pats the sides of her eyes. He watches her thinking that high society has most certainly changed her.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that," she tells him, chuckling, trying to downplay her display of naivety.

For the first time he decides to be the better person, the stronger person. In nearly every relationship he's had, he's been the jackass, the unreliable guy. But seeing her fall apart, right in front of him. Her fragile hands and troubled eyes. He wants to make it better for her, but somehow he doesn't know where to start.

"Don't worry about it," he says, trying to muster up a soothing voice. He takes his hand out from underneath the table and gently places it on hers, desperately trying to make her feel better. But when he does touch her soft skin, a shockwave flows through him, so much that he withdraws his hand almost immediately. He looks up to see if she's noticed it, but she's merely scraping at her food.

"You know what I think?" he says, gaining control of his rapid heartbeat once again. "I think we need ice cream."

She lifts her head gently up at him, a full bright, cheery smile on her face.

"I think you're right," she tells him.

* * *

The thing he has noticed about her is that her favorite ice cream has changed. She likes Mint Chocolate Chip now, instead of Double Dutch Chocolate. They find a park bench, almost a block away from the ice cream vendor, who had seriously overcharged Jess to the point, that he wonders how he's going to get dinner that night, but he doesn't worry because right now he's concentrating on the delighted smile on her face.

She licks at her ice cream cone, and to him she almost resembles a little girl. Funny how such simple pleasures can make a world of difference. He's noticed though that since she only knows one thing about him, her tendency to pick up the subject is rapid. They only talk about books.

"So what have you been doing lately?" he asks her.

"Reading, mostly, my job is being saved until you know, I remember more," she says rapidly finishing the last part of her sentence.

"What are you reading?"

"Everything. All my books over and over again. You know I have a lot of books," she says.

He smiles and takes another bite of his ice cream, dreamily remembering her bookcase, shelves and drawers filled with literature.

"But you know," she starts. "It's the strangest thing. I found, in some of my books. They have little bits of writing in them. Like little side comments, they were really good though, but I don't know where they came from."

He continues eating his ice cream, trying not to make eye contact with her. She seems to be formulating it all out in her head, wondering who could have possibly written it.

"Maybe you did," he tells her.

However to his dismay she shakes her head decisively.

"It's not my handwriting though. It looks like a guy wrote it. But it was brilliant little comments and they made me laugh too."

He just takes a bit of his ice cream, but finds the flavor is no longer to his liking. In his state of mind, he's trying not to draw too much attention to the subject. He really wishes she would just drop it. But he knows her, and her mind and knows it could be a very long time. But after awhile he assures her, it's probably from an old boyfriend. This makes her more subdued and they let themselves sink into a silent bliss.

_He's lying on her bed, while she's carefully stacking various books into the cardboard box below her. One of the books, sparks his curiosity, while she's not looking of course, he takes it in his hands and begins to flip the pages incessantly. One of the things he loves about her, is not a word has to pass between them. A word might slip here and there, but altogether, nothing needs to be spoken. On occasion of course words can be his friend; he relaxes knowing she expects nothing he can't give her. He snatches his pen from the back pocket of his jeans, beginning to write notes on the side. She turns around again, to watch him, because she thinks one day she'll look away too long and before she knows it he'll be gone. Her beautiful blue eyes spot him writing and she grins sheepishly._

"_Jess…."_

_He doesn't stop writing though, but fails in concealing a grin._

"_Just one thing I promise," he tells her._

"_Jess…" she says again, but she still doesn't do anything to try and stop him._

_With the dotting of the last 'i' he places the book back down._

"_Half of my books have you written all over them," she tells him, laughing at the thought._

_She mindlessly plays with her hands, but he grabs one of them, pulling her forward, towards him, towards the bed. The brunette allows herself to be lowered down and pulled closely to the body of the boy lying next to her._

"_One of these days I'm going to open one of these books and wonder who wrote in it," she says. He tries to grin, but the full weight of her comment, collapses anything resembling a smile. Her words, from his point of view, take it to mean that they have no future. He finds himself drifting apart from her slightly, after all what's the use hanging around if she sees nothing past now with him. His hand loosens around her body and she feels him move away from her. Her realization of his taking of her words, are too slow. _

"_Oh, Jess…I didn't mean it like that –"_

"_I know," he says getting up and stretching. But no matter how many times he's lied, he can never seem to truly bypass her. She eyes him carefully knowing he's throwing this way out of proportion. "I have to go," he tells her._

"_Don't leave," she says trying to make it sound vague and informal, put a plea unmistakably passes from her lips. _

"_Bye Rory," he says, pecking her on the lips, lingering only long enough to make her wish she could take back her words. She finds sometimes that with him words can be her worst enemy._

* * *

When she does finally return home, she has a full fledged smile on her face. She enters the stony steps of the home she and Clark share. There's nothing special in her eyes about that magnificent piece of architecture. It's grand to be sure, but there is no brilliancy in its story and within its walls, she feels nothing but loneliness. She hears the roar of the television and she knows he's home. His eyes spot her as she enters the living room, and she finds a football game adorning the TV screen.

"Hey babe," he says, acknowledging her presence but not taking his eyes off of the screen.

She nestles her body down next to his on the couch cushion. She has yet to become wholly comfortable with his presence, yet there's something deserving in his nature that she finds incredibly alluring.

"Where were you?" he asks her, putting an arm around her, yet again, not looking at her.

"With Jess," she tells him.

His eyes immediately jump from the TV to her. She reads his face of suspicion and jealously and suppresses a laugh.

"Don't worry Clark, he's a friend. He likes to read, and I know you don't like to read anyway."

She strokes his hair; she finds it's a habit now, as if she used to do it before the accident but when she reaches the top of his head all she finds it hard, gelled hair. He's still looking at her, trying to decipher her words, as if there was a hidden meaning.

"Damn right I don't like reading, reading is for –"

"I read," she says calmly.

"Yea, but sweetheart you're a girl and guys read to get girls, otherwise they are –"

"Clark…he's an old friend, there's nothing between us, absolutely nothing. Can you understand that?" she asks him, smiling, letting him know, she is serious without being mad at him.

The anger slips off his face. "Sorry, I just…well I don't want anyone taking advantage of you. I love you Rory," he tells her.

She bites her bottom lip, not seductively by any means, but more as a defense mechanism. She has yet to become accustomed to the 'L' word, as she has yet to use to in front of him.

She kisses him softly before he turns back to the television. She gets up and makes her way up the flight of stairs and throwing herself onto her luxurious bed, wondering if what she just told Clark was absolutely true.

* * *

A/N: this is I think my favorite chapter so far…Look what happens when you're stuck at a cottage, writing bits of a story on looseleaf paper and napkins. Please tell me what you think. Feedback Appreciated, as always. :) Lacy 


	5. chappie

She wakes with a start the next morning. Her hands she finds are clammy as is her forehead along with the remainder of her untouched body. However, this is so normal to her; she merely flops back onto her bed. Her dreams, since the accident have not been the least bit appealing. Some occur with deaths or tragic losses. Some frighten her almost to the point that Clark will wake her to tell her she's been screaming horrible things in her sleep. Her restlessness, at times is even more sacred to her, because she feels at ease.

She showers, eats and dresses with no more nightmares. Her appointment book lies open on the kitchen counter and she groans as she realizes that she has another meeting with Kristin. It's not entirely that she dislikes Kristin, but she finds that when Clark hired a private investigator to make sure she remembered, he might not have thought what was best for her. She can no longer drive, because just the thought of it frightens her. Her walks, she thoroughly enjoys because it gives her time to think, clear her head and above all be alone. When she does reach the bus stop, she waits patiently until it pulls up in front of her, in which she hops on. She walks towards the back and sees an all too familiar face.

"Jess."

He looks up startled and puts the book he had been reading into his back pocket.

"Are you following me?" he asks her, grinning.

She grins back and accepts this as an invitation to sit down next to him.

"I didn't know you took the bus," he tells her.

She shrugs at him, deciding that he probably wouldn't give two shits why she can't drive, but looks at him and decides he might be worth it…

"I'm afraid," she says.

"Of?"

"Of driving," she answers.

He looks out the window for a moment and then replies.

"Do you remember…stuff?"

She starts playing with her hands, something he knows she always used to do when she was nervous.

"Well, I remember things, like I know where I live, and I know who my mom is but nothing before the – accident," she adds quickly.

He nods at her, not attempting to continue with such a touchy subject, but a sudden realization dawns on her.

"Where are you going?" she asks.

He tries to conceal a grin and suddenly his stomach does a backflip.

"I was going to – to well…nothing really," he adds dully.

"Do you just ride around on buses for fun then?"

He grins at her usual sarcasm, finding it all too comforting.

"Are you doing anything today? You want to see a movie?" he asks, before he realizes what just left his mouth.

"I love movies!" she squeals grinning at him, like she just divulged her most dire secret.

"Really…?" he says as if this was new to him.

"But I have to go see Kristin first," she tells him, matter-of-factly, as if it was the most important thing in the world.

He nods thinking, _Let the games begin_.

When they arrive at her office, Rory knocks softly, and Kristin's face pops into view so fast, Jess could have swore she flew.

"Rory and…Mr. Mariano," she says flatly.

She invites them in, and Jess is sure that it's only because of Rory otherwise she would have made him stand outside.

"Rory, I'm glad you came I've got great news, I have someone else for you to meet," she says as she gestures towards the chair nearest to her desk. In it sits a man with a small beard and mustache, who obviously standing up would have been over six feet tall. His beefy body and hearty stare fixes on Rory and then a grim smile overcomes his face as he sees Jess.

"Rory, this is Dean Forrester."

She steps forward to greet Dean who had already strode across the room to greet her. His eyes wash over her, fixedly staring at her. Jess suppresses the intense protective side of him, and decides today's not the best time to bring up the past.

"Do you remember me Rory?" he asks hopefully, still gazing over his lost prize.

Rory takes a step back, obviously trying to get his whole body into view, which considering his size, is no small task. Almost immediately she frowns and shakes her head, she simply doesn't remember him.

The frustration on Kristin's part is obvious by the heavy sigh she gives. In which she leads Rory into a room connected to her office saying she has some picture that might help. She closes the door and leaves both of the men together in a quandary of silence, as Jess realizes she's left him with the giant scumbag. Neither says anything for a moment, then a giant grin spreads across Dean's face.

"I slept with her," he says.

Jess looks away, not wanting Dean to see the anger in his eyes. So he suppresses the intense urge to punch him at that very moment. He does notice though the intensely smug look on the jackass's face, as if proud that he deflowered the lovable girl. The words hover in the air though, they seem to wrap around his neck and nearly choke him, because once the anger in him subsides. The resentment and hurt flow through.

_He fingers the lace of her top and puts his hand underneath it to touch the soft, smooth skin. She laughs playfully at him, her head against his pillow. He kisses her bare stomach, while slowly lifting up her shirt. He carefully fingers the waistband of her jeans while focusing his eyes solely on her own. His fingers find the button of her jeans and undo it, simply out of old habit. He feels her stiffen, and he withdraws his hand. She looks up at him, her eyes nervous as ever. He doesn't like to wait, but he will, for her. He just needs to hear her say it._

"_Jess…not now," she tells him, embarrassment creeping into her voice accidentally. _

_He falls into place next to her. Both of them lying on his twin bed, fitting perfectly together. She takes this as an invitation to rest her head on his chest. While she hears the soft steady beat of his heart, she knows it's the rhythm that guides her all together._

He remembered, she had said she wasn't ready. She had protested to him, that she wanted to be in love, that it was supposed to be planned and at the right moment. He feels his heart ache and nearly drop to the pit of his stomach. _He_ was supposed to be her_ first_.

His anger is too much to bear, and he doesn't want her to see him like this. He rushes out of the office, onto the sidewalk. His own heart is beating unusually fast and unfortunately for him, he finds himself reliving past memories much more than he'd like. He leans himself against the brick wall, and heaves a sigh as the day workers brush up against him. He turns to leave, but he hears her voice behind him and he stops.

"Where are you going?" she asks cheerfully, oblivious to his anger.

He doesn't say anything he merely keeps walking. Her bewildered stare follows him, and she wonders whether he hasn't heard her or doesn't want to answer.

"Are we still going to the movies?" she asks wonderment spreading across her face.

He finally turns around facing her; he realizes they're in the park. Unfortuneatly for his memory, he remembers this park all too well. He remembers her, what she was wearing, the grim look on her face and lastly what she told him.

_Her skirt blows dreamily in the wind. He fingers the softness of it, not tempting to reach father than he should because he knows he'll be trespassing. The smile that once adorned her angelic face is no longer visible and he doesn't know what's caused the sudden change. He hopes he hasn't done it, because there could be serious repercussions. The book in her hand holds her attention for a while, but soon she begins to fidget and he finds that she's expecting a conversation. She withdraws her body from next to him and it automatically sends an alert to his head. _

"_We need to talk," she tells him._

_His first impulse is to run and hide because he hates confrontation and in all previous occasions has done all he could to divert it. But he finds himself still seated next to her, she finds herself even shocked to still have him there in front of her._

"_I'm not happy," she says softly._

_She begins to wring her hands together, fiddling with the ring on her index finger. Something he had won for her at one of the horrible Carnivals they had gone to. He knows if she pulls it off, it'll be the end. Not that it has any significant meaning in their relationship, but to him it's the signal of their life together. When she was mad at him for a week she had worn it on her middle finger, giving him the obvious signal she wasn't happy with him. But now he sees her toying with the idea of pulling it off all together. He feels no need to ask her why she's not happy, because he knows he can't. _

"_Can we just see how this goes for a while?" she asks._

_He doesn't acknowledge this but lest with a simple nod. He feels himself drifting even farther apart from her. Father than he could have possibly imagined._

"Did something happen?" she asks him again, as he breaks from his concentration.

He shakes his head and then softly whispers, "How could you?"

Her smile has slipped off her face. He can't tell whether one of anger or confusion has replaced it, but he knows it's not good for him.

"What did I do?" she asks softly, and by this he knows she's angry.

"You slept with him."

"With who?"

"Dean!"

"But I –"

"How could you Rory?" he asks her, letting his emotion seep into his voice. "I thought – well I thought, god damn it."

"I don't know what I did."

"I just thought when you said you weren't ready, it was because of the timing, not the person –"

"Jess!"

He turns to looks at her.

"Who's Dean? The guy we just met?" she asks cluelessly. And for a moment the realization hits him over the head. She hasn't a clue as to what he's talking about. Because she doesn't remember. She doesn't remember him or Dean, or much of anything else for that matter. He suddenly regrets these words and for a moment he wants to desperately pull them back out of the air, but like many other things: He's too late.

"I have to go," he tells her. With that he starts to walk away.

"Go, leave, I'm sure you're good at that!"

He stiffens at her response and nearly jumps from the shock of it. He looks back in her direction, but she's no longer standing there, instead he can only see her retreating figure, marching roughly down the sidewalk and turning the corner out of sight. He sits on the nearest park bench, and thinks to himself. _She couldn't have remembered him, she couldn't have. Right?_


	6. finally

When he finally does find her, she's barely in a state to be told apologies. Oddly enough she smells strongly of tequila and limes. Her breath hums happily over him, and suddenly he wants to kiss her. But then she stumbles over her too-high heels and suddenly he forgets. She reaches out so that he can catch her, but he's already two steps ahead of her.

"I'm – drunk," she states, smiling wildly.

He laughs under his breath, because in all his years of knowing her, he's never seen her quite like this and he's not particularly sure if he completely likes it or not. So he doesn't answer her. Instead he nods to the bartender, telling him to cut her off, the bartender winks his eye in return. He walks her from inside the smoke-filled bar and out into the cool air of the night. She's stumbling, but he's protecting her.

"Hello," she says, as if just noticing him.

"Hi," he says, struggling to keep her upright.

"Where are we going?" she asks, borderline flirtatiously.

"Home," he states simply.

Her weight pressed against his body is somehow soothing. He finds it altogether empowering and he nearly forgets why she's like this in the first place.

"I'm sorry," she says.

He almost let's go of her, but instead grasps her firmly.

"Rory don't."

She bites her bottom lip for a moment and continues.

"I don't want – to – go – home," she says. He could have sworn there was a flicker of a mischievous smile somewhere in there, but he thinks perhaps he might be hallucinating or is it just wishful thinking?

"I'm sorry," she says again to no one in particular. She's always the one saying sorry and it's never her fault.

"It's alright," he tells her as they walk on. Her heels clank against the sidewalk loudly. They cross the street, nearing her house. He releases her as they walk up the pathway, but she's tipping again. He reaches out to catch her but she falls into him. Actually it's more of a crash and suddenly she's brushing her lips against his. He wants to pull back and really he should but he can't. He just can't. She's the one breaking the contact, and he expects confusion and anger in her eyes, but they're shiny and glazed and he realizes in her current condition their encounter won't be remembered in the morning.

"Goodnight Rory," he says stepping away from her, as she sways slowly.

"Jess--," she slurs. "Don't leave. C'mon I'm sorr---y just don't leave me."

"You just need to sleep this off," he says trying to choose his words carefully, but she's pulling at the sleeve of his jacket.

"Do you want to come in?" she asks. Does he? Yes. Will he? No. But there's no point in trying to explain that to her.

"Look Rory, I really should be getting home. You really should sleep this off," he says drawing attention to her complete state of disarray.

"Why?" she asks.

"Why what?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says turning away from her readying himself to nearly run away.

"You're acting like this…Like you don't care."

"It's how I am, get used to it, everybody else already has."

"But you- you're not like this. Are – you?" she asks him dumbly. Then her eyes get wide, and she suddenly remembers why she walked into the damn bar and started shooting back shots in the first place. Somehow it always comes back to him.

"You're an asshole," she states simply.

He doesn't waste energy trying to refute it, so instead he simply hangs his head and stares long and hard at his shoes.

"I'm sorry," he tells her. His statement has a sobering effect on her, because for a moment her eyes twinkle lightly and they're back to being friends again.

"I forgive you. But – I only forgive once."

He nods; he doesn't have the heart to tell her that if she only forgave once, he would have been gone a long time ago.

_The music of the party blasts loudly in his ears. And then suddenly she's falling into him. Crashing actually. And it takes his momentous reflexes to catch her just in time. Her breath hints at a shot or two of something alcoholic. She's smiling flirtatiously at him, something she never did soberly, unless provoked. She reaches up to kiss him, but he feels her tongue slip inside his mouth and suddenly the virginal girl standing in front of him, feels somehow just a little sexier. Suddenly it takes all of his strength not to reach out and pull her closer to him. He knows she's different. He knows this is different. He knows because with any other girl he would take advantage of the situation, but with her, the thought never even crossed his mind. _

Something inside of him aches to be with her. He could never begin to comprehend the complexity of their relationship. He remembers something from science. A law of physics or something like that. For every action another thing happens. She pushes, he pulls and yet they're always stuck in this same old mess.

The next day she doesn't hear from him. She can't say she's surprised. Clark is nonchalant, she knows he's not the sharpest pencil in the drawer but he's not blind either. He asks her what's wrong but she gives her usual response. Pause. Smile. Say "Nothing". Kiss. Repeat as necessary.

His lack of snide comments worries his boss so much, she sends him home early. A stack of mail awaits his arrival in his mailbox. Bills. Bills. Magazine Subscription. And then he groans as he sees a letter. The handwriting doesn't seem familiar yet he hasn't been one to look pointedly at another's penmanship. Nonetheless he throws all such things aside as he lies on his own overstuffed couch.

The next day he finds himself on her doorstep. He has to tell himself he won't beg. The last thing he wants to be is desperate.

"Hi," he tells her astonished face as she opens the door. He holds out a bag for her. She reluctantly grabs it and as soon as it opens a grin a mile wide spreads across her face.

"You know the way to a girl's heart," she says stepping aside, to let him in.

"It's through her taste buds."

She laughs and pulls the chocolate from the bag.

"Oh my god, you have chocolate cake in here," she screams. It takes every muscle in his body not to reach out and touch her face. Her smile spreads further, if possible, across her face. Something which makes his heart jump for a moment.

"Fresh from Chef Mariano's kitchen."

"No!"

"Don't act too surprised."

"No way!" she says almost kid-like.

"It's dark chocolate Duncan Hines, not Betty Crocker. And the icing is Nestle. Just how you like it."

She's inches away from kissing him. But she doesn't and for a moment she's reluctant to say anything.

"Jess," she says finally. "I'm glad I know you."

He turns to her, dumbly. Wondering what words could possibly be appropriate.

"Me too, Rory." He tells her. Me Too.

a/n : oh my goodness I feel like a horrible writer it's been monthSSS. That's right as in more than one. Since I've updated. (bad writer, bad). But anyway I have wonderful excuses for not writing. 1. school (stupid ap classes) 2. basketball (I'm tired) 3. friends (I love my friends) 4. job (have to pay for a car somehow). Anyway this chapter is something I created to perhaps get some creative juices flowing.

Reviews are greatly appreciated. And if you don't mind, in the review could you please add either one of or all of these:

Comments about the general story

Critiques you have of my writing

Your favorite/least favorite part/sentence/word

I'm trying to become a better writer so these things would be awesome. Thanx.

LacY :)


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